


Start taking back what they stole

by kawuli



Series: Smiles and Promises [12]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Quarter Quell, War Crimes, canon-typical horribleness, references to forced prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 23:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: Everything still feels unreal and faraway. Rokia can't make it register, all of what's about to happen, and she doesn't really think she wants to. That much… it might drown her if she tries to think about it all at once. Better to break it down, one day, one job, one moment at a time. She heads for the back of the train to watch the District disappear behind her.The Rebellion is starting, the world is changing, and Rokia is caught up in the whirlwind.





	1. The Games

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The End is the Beginning is the End: The Quarter Quell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738082) by [lorata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata). 



> This is posted in both [Smiles and Promises](https://archiveofourown.org/series/333952) and [These are truly the last days](https://archiveofourown.org/series/348665) since it connects to both.
> 
> (And yes it was going to be a one-shot, now it will be 4 (?) chapters long, idek these things just happen)

She thought she was ready. They’ve been planning ever since the card was read, trying to think of all the contingencies. Rokia saw her grandma last night, late, and she’ll be with the girls now, leaving on the train to disappear into the wild north.

But still it sounds like the escort is a couple districts over when she calls out the name—Poppy, not Rokia, and Plutarch said that’s how it would go but she knows better than to trust him. And then—“Chester Phillips,” the escort trills, and Rokia can’t breathe.

“I volunteer,” the voice is uninflected, harsh.

Rokia can see again. Phillips is staring at Terence, his expression completely blank. Terence shrugs one shoulder, his face twists into a sardonic smile, and he steps forward, climbs the steps, and takes Poppy’s hand.

 

The mood on the train is grim, even more silent than it usually is. Terence and Poppy barely made it onto the train before passing out together in one of the rooms. Even Phillips doesn't seem to mind. Rokia definitely doesn't.

Everything still feels unreal and faraway. She can't make it register, all of what's about to happen, and she doesn't really think she wants to. That much… it might drown her if she tries to think about it all at once. Better to break it down, one day, one job, one moment at a time. She leaves Phillips standing in the dining car and heads for the back of the train to watch the District disappear behind her.

Will she ever make it back? Will any of them?

 

Finnick and Cashmere and Gloss are off the market and the Capitol is whipped up into Games-crazy like never before. Rokia’s schedule is packed fuller than it's ever been.

They get in at midnight. She's in prep by one, out by three, at a pre-Games party by four. Gets back at ten, goes to Remake, goes to an interview, goes to a photo shoot, goes to the Parade, goes to a party, a house, a car, Remake, another photo shoot, no questions, no answers even when the photographers try to ask.

Back to the Six floor, which reeks of cooking morphling. Rokia's throat goes tight and she wonders where her sisters are, what they're doing, how much they're seeing, what they might know. Wonders where Mom is. She wasn't at the Reaping. Just like the first time Rokia made this trip.

She's still standing in the hallway, paralyzed, when Phillips walks out of the kitchen and sees her. His quick glance turns careful, probing, and he sets down his coffee and walks over to her. Touches her shoulder, says “Rokia?” His eyes search her face, sweep up and down looking for—something.

Rokia squeezes her eyes shut for a second, opens them. “I'm fine,” she says, and it comes out sharper, louder than she meant. She shakes off his hand, steps past into her room.

 

She barely sees Terence and Poppy. When she does they're high to the point of incoherence, slumped together on the floor, leaned against the couch, syringes and vials never out of reach.

After the first day it's the medical grade stuff, no need to cook it, and the smell fades. One less thing battering at Rokia’s head, that smell, the reminders of home, of places and people she's left behind.

* * *

 

She's at a club, music pounding and too many people and her head spinning, when Gaius Luna pulls her into a private back room. She flinches hard when the door opens and someone is already there, a tall man with a pinched face and jet black hair and a datapad on his knees.

“Rokia,” he says, watching her. “Plutarch sent me.”

Rokia just nods. Luna is sitting in the corner, watching.

“He needs your help,” the tall guy says. “Beetee says you can do it.”

“Do what?” Rokia asks. Her voice sounds loud in her ears.

“Get into the Gamemakers system. Jam hovercraft signals, bring down the force field.” He pauses. “We are hoping it will not be necessary,” he adds, “but once plans are in motion we cannot afford to take a chance.”

Rokia stares. Swallows hard, takes a deep breath. “I can't get in,” she says, “I'm not that good. But if I’m connected…” she pauses. Thinks about it, about the homework Beetee’s given her, tries to play his game of “how must this system be assembled.” There would have to be emergency overrides, in case they need a larger hovercraft than the little corpse collectors. “I could figure it out,” she says. “I need time though.”

The man stands up, hands her his datapad. “Your companion is a Gamemaker. He will provide you with access. He will request your company when you are needed.”

He walks out the door.

Rokia turns. Her…companion…is smiling, snakelike. She takes another deep breath, sits next to him, hands him the datapad. He enters credentials, presses his thumb to the screen, and it comes alive.

Rokia spends precious minutes staring stupidly at the controls before she gives in, digs into the ridiculous little bag she has with her, and pulls out a red stim pill. She crunches it between her teeth and turns back to the job.

Yes, there is an override, she isn't supposed to access it but Plutarch can. Jamming signals, well, that she knows how to do. Overwhelm them with data and they go down. She digs down to find transmission protocols and controls designed to prevent her from doing exactly what she's planning to do. Convinces herself that she can get past those, and there's no way to do a test run without tipping someone off, but as far as she can be, Rokia is confident she can do what she needs.

When she looks up, Luna is slumped on the couch, asleep, his mouth open. Rokia wishes she could just let him sleep, slip out and go back, but she can't afford to take risks now. She shakes his shoulder, gently, and he stirs.

“Hmmmmm, you're pretty when you're concentrating,” he says, smiling.

Rokia's teeth grind at that but she forces herself to relax. To smile as best she can.

He stretches, stands up, takes the datapad from her and tucks it in under his jacket. “Come on,” he says, puts an arm around her when she stands, and leads her out to the car.

She's far too antsy to sleep when she gets back, the buzz of the drug and the adrenaline combining, but Phillips is sitting in the common room when she comes in, drinking coffee and glaring at the television. He looks up when he sees her, eyes narrowed.

Rokia smiles, suppresses near-hysterical giggles, and slips into her room to change.

 

Rokia’s on the treadmill, music loud in her headphones to drown out all the noise in her head, when Lyme comes in. Lyme nods vaguely in her direction, doesn't really wait for a response before heading to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling.

Rokia keeps running for nearly an hour, but when she's done Lyme is still so intent she doesn't see Rokia leave.

 

Wiress is waiting in front of the elevators, the morning of the interviews. Rokia doesn't see her at first, intent on getting to her room, to a shower before she collapses.

“Rokia,” she says, quiet. Rokia jumps, turns toward her. Wiress hands her a little wire beetle, eyes on Rokia's hands and not her face. “I made this for you,” she adds.

When Wiress looks up it's like a slap in the face. Wiress’ eyes are too wide, dark-circled, red-rimmed. But she narrows them to glare at Rokia until Rokia holds her gaze, nods. Wiress hits the button for the elevator, stands looking down, hands twisted together.

They step in. Rokia hits the buttons for three and six, leans against the wall. Wiress stands stock still in the exact center until the doors open on the Three floor. Then she turns to look at Rokia again.

“You're a good engineer, Rokia,” she says. “I have enjoyed working together.”

Before Rokia can collect herself enough to answer, Wiress steps through the doors and they slide closed behind her.

When Rokia gets to her room, the little beetle’s shape is imprinted in her palm.

The words rattle around her head while she showers, while she pulls pillows off the bed to nestle between it and the wall, while she tries to force herself to sleep.

* * *

 

Someone catches her arm at a party—no one Rokia recognizes, nothing about him stands out. “The alley. Out back. Someone’s waiting.”

Rokia glances around. Her companion’s on the other side of the room, waiting for her to fetch them new drinks. He’s not watching her.

She slips past the guard, who glances over just long enough to recognize her before looking away, slips through the door without letting it fully open.

Standing behind a dumpster, hidden in shadow, is Joe.

Rokia’s heart pounds. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong, because Joe doesn’t belong in this part of town, he’ll disappear if he’s caught, this is reckless and stupid and dangerous, so it must be important.

“Joe?” she whispers, coming up close beside him.

He sizes her up in a quick glance and his mouth tightens. “Your girl called me,” he says, in a low rumble. “Train’s leaving at seven minutes past midnight, heading for Eight. You get there, you’re on it.”

Rokia’s mouth goes dry. Phillips told her, weeks ago, they only had contingencies for the ones in the Arena. And Haymitch, because they need someone to wrangle their Mockingjay into what they want. The rest of them, well, they don’t say the word ‘expendable’ but that’s what they mean. Since then, Rokia hasn’t thought about after. She can’t think about anything beyond the night she’ll sit in Gaius Luna’s house and monitor the forcefields. At midnight, as far as she’s concerned, the world will end.

Except maybe not.

Because Sara is stubborn and willful and won’t give up on her.

Joe’s still watching her. Rokia nods. “What about you?” she asks.

His teeth flash white in the dark as he smiles. “I’ll be in Eleven by then. Say hi to Paylor for me.”

Rokia nods again, glances toward the door. “I gotta get back in.”

“Be careful,” Joe warns, his eyes holding hers.

“You too,” Rokia says.

She slips in the door, gets another uncurious glance from the guard, just to make sure she’s not some kid sneaking in.

The music rattles in her chest, flashing lights and throngs of people and it’s too bright, too loud, too much. Rokia takes a deep breath, blows it out through pursed lips and heads for the bar.

 

Phillips is waiting for her when she gets back. The Games start tomorrow—today? Is it in a few hours or twenty-four and change? Rokia’s head spins when she tries to think too hard.

“Come upstairs with me,” he says, before she’s had a chance to say anything.

She’s about to protest, to say she needs to shower at least, but when she sees the look on his face she stops, nods. He walks to the elevator, shoulders hunched, eyes down, stands still and silent up to the top, up the stairs and onto the roof.

Rokia follows him, until he turns abruptly and she nearly walks into him before she notices and stops.

“You get out,” Phillips says, arms crossed tight over his chest. “I know they—“ he lifts a hand to wave. “I know what they said. But you go, get to the cargo docks and get on a train or something. Someone’ll take you.”

“What about you?” Rokia asks.

“Don’t worry about me,” he snaps. “Just go.”

“Joe found me,” Rokia says. “Train’s leaving at 12:07. You could come with me.”

Phillips shakes his head. “I’m staying here,” he says. “Just get out.”

“Phillips—“ Rokia starts, but she doesn’t know what to say. Tears well up in her eyes; she doesn’t want this, whatever it is, it’s too much, too fast, too chaotic. She’s lost, caught on a train hurtling into the night and she doesn’t know where they’ll end up or what will happen when they get there.

But you can’t do anything but get swept along, on a train. Can’t run fast enough the other way to stand still. Just have to settle into the motion till it feels more like solid ground.

“Don’t worry about me,” Phillips repeats—she thinks he’s probably said the same thing five different ways now, but that’s probably for the best.

Rokia nods, finally, then steps in close to Phillips, lets him put his arms around her, hold her against his chest while her eyes leak tears onto his shirt.

She pulls away, scrubs at her eyes. Her Capitol makeup probably won’t even smear. Rokia takes a deep breath. Phillips watches her, and Rokia thought she could read him but right now? She hasn’t got a clue.

“Come on,” Phillips says. “Couple hours till the start, you should get some sleep.”

So it is today. Rokia just nods again and follows him down to her room, her bed, where she falls asleep in her clothes.

 

Rokia wakes up with a start. The room is dark, but it's always dark, there's no way to tell what time it is, but she feels like she's slept for a while. She looks around, finds her phone. It's noon, she slept for six hours, and Phillips didn't wake her up for the start of the Games.

She's not sure whether she's irritated or relieved. Both, maybe. No point rushing now, in any event. She takes a long, hot shower, puts on soft, worn jeans from home and a t-shirt, pads out into the common room. It's empty. Empty, and silent, and calm, and the contrast to everything that's happened in the past few days puts her teeth on edge. She's waiting for something to break the silence, ambush her in the empty room.

So she sighs, turns on the Games as she heads to the kitchen. The Arena is…odd. Circular, water in the center, an island holding the cornucopia. She can see the platforms, between spokes that make the whole center look like a wheel. Nobody's there, just hovercrafts descending to clear away bodies. Nothing to distinguish one district from another this year, and the camera stays too far away to see faces. But then a list flashes across the bottom of the screen, and partway down she sees it. D6M, Terence’s name.

Just D6M, though. No D6F, so Poppy’s still alive somewhere.

It's strange that this year of all years the whole thing feels distant, unreal, unimportant. It's easier somehow, knowing going in that the tributes weren't coming back out. Knowing it was Terence and Poppy and not a couple kids with families and friends and their whole lives ahead of them. Knowing that, likely as not, she won't be coming back from the Capitol either.

Not a lot of action-movie escapes happen on slow cargo trains. And the hovercraft defecting the Capitol aren't for her. They're for Plutarch’s key contacts only. Priority assets. Months ago, Rokia sat next to Beetee in a hidden room below a fancy Capitol restaurant while they discussed the list, watched as Beetee’s jaw clenched harder as Plutarch told them it was too risky to get anyone out of the mentors’ control room except Haymitch.

“We need intelligence,” Finnick said, his voice tight. “We need someone who knows Two, and nobody worthwhile is on my client list.”

“What are you suggesting?” someone snapped.

Finnick glanced at Rokia. “Lyme,” he said.

The room erupted, quietly. “No,” said a woman with steel-grey hair. “Too uncertain.”

Plutarch looked thoughtful. Beetee kept silent. But the woman was the one deciding, apparently, because they didn't discuss it further.

 

Beetee is in the Arena now. So is Finnick. There's no way to talk to anyone anymore—the Training Center is even more heavily bugged than before, the stakes too high to risk it. Rokia has been handed an escape, but she can't share it with anyone, not even Eibhlin and Lumina. She has no reason to talk to mentors from Three, and neither does Phillips. She's never worked with either of them, there's no conceivable project she could be asking about. She can't risk looking suspicious, not now. She has a job to do, and she’ll do it, and she can't worry about the rest.

Rokia drinks her coffee, eats oatmeal out of the machine, watches enough of the commentary to be able to talk about the start with whoever she's with tonight, then heads downstairs.

Phillips is sitting at the console, back straight as always, arms folded across his chest. It's unusually quiet, the air heavy with tension. Nobody’s joking, negotiating, needling each other. One and Two are on the phones, on and off, speaking to each other, but no one else says a word. Lumina, at Three, is staring intently at her monitor, and next to her Odysseus is watching the big screen above them, face blank, checking what's being broadcast to the country.

Phillips looks over when she sits down, but nobody else seems to notice. “You’re up,” he says, softly. Rokia nods.

She only gets to stay a couple hours before she's being called in for prep. A few eyes follow her as she goes, bland curiosity mostly, hard-eyed calculation from Dexter at the One seat.

Remake is unusually quiet. Unusually empty. She tries not to think about it.

* * *

 

Gaius Luna sends for her the morning of the third day. The knock on the door wakes her up, and she jumps up so fast the room spins and she has to sit back down on the bed till her vision clears.

An Avox passes her a white card, rose-scented. She opens it, reads the name, the instructions— “bring equipment”— and nods.

“I'll head down to Remake in a minute,” she says. He nods, walks away.

Rokia takes a deep breath, picks up the bag she's had ready for this since that first meeting in the club, and goes to find Phillips.

He's asleep on the couch in the common room.

“Phillips,” she says, quiet, then louder—and then he wakes up, startled.

She waits for him to sit up, hands him the card. “I have to go,” she says, mindful of the bugs. “He has me till tomorrow morning.”

Phillips knows the bread code as well as anyone in the Arena does. He looks up at her, then stands. He hesitates for a second, then pulls her into a tight hug. “Be careful,” he says, bent close enough she can feel his breath on the top of her head. Feels his throats work as he swallows. “I love you, Rokia,” he whispers, and pulls away.

Rokia blinks back tears. “You too,” she manages, low and choked, and then she turns away, walks out the door, and pushes the elevator button to take her down to Remake.

 

Luna’s house is extravagant, huge and ornate and ridiculous, and Rokia feels small just knocking on the door.

“Bring equipment” means she's dressed in black, in almost nothing, a jacket she can let drop once she's inside as a gesture towards not scandalizing the neighbors.

Luna’s eyes go wide and hungry when he sees her, and it's stupid but Rokia had hoped to skip this part. Hoped that maybe given everything he'd let her set up in his private study, monitor things and just…not be this, just for today. But no. Given what he must have paid for 24 hours of her time in the middle of the most exciting Games anyone can remember, he wants at least some of his money’s worth.

 

At least he doesn't drag it out too long. Lets her shower and change into the clothes in her bag, shows her up to the study and helps her get the _other_ equipment she brought plugged in. Rokia pulls up the video feeds. All the mentor feeds are there, the broadcast feed, a line to the Gamemakers control room and one to the mentors. Plutarch is pacing in the Gamemakers room. The mentors room is silent and tense, everyone watching their monitors.

A message flashes through. “Access granted. PH.”

Another screen appears: Plutarch’s control terminal. Rokia takes a deep breath, and starts worming her way into the Arena’s systems, looking for the code she needs to shut down power to the force field, jam hovercraft communications as best she can.

She's still working when Luna comes in, comes up behind her and trails fingers down her neck, across her shoulders. Rokia doesn't scream. Just imagines his fingers trailing acid and fire down to her spine, eating away everything and leaving her only a skeleton. Then she takes a deep breath and smiles up at him.

“I thought we should have a nice dinner,” Luna says, “while we have the chance.”

Skies above, he likes her. He thinks there's something to this, beyond money and power and convenience. Rokia suddenly cares even less for the mountain of trouble that's going to land on his head for all of this.

But she can't say no.

“Sure,” she says, brightly. “I'll just get ready.”

Remake prepared her for this. Her hair’s set, her makeup’s impermeable, there's a dress and a new set of lingerie in with her things, something she could wear to a fancy place.

She takes everything into the bathroom, because fuck it, the world's ending, she's not making getting dressed for dinner into a fucking striptease.

She avoids looking in the mirror, except for a quick glance to make sure she's presentable, and goes out.

Luna looks annoyed, but smiles when he looks at her. Hooks an arm around her waist, fingers curling around her hipbone, pulls her close. “Hm, lovely,” he says, steering her toward the door. “We’d better go before I get distracted.”

Rokia smiles sweetly. “How about a drink first? To relax?”

He chuckles, changes direction. Rokia reaches for one of the decanters on the bar, lets the sleeping pill drop from her fingers and dissolve in the amber liquid, then hands him his glass.

She can’t say no, but she doesn’t have time for this, and Rokia’s not wasting these hours. She sips at her drink, watches as Luna drinks his, sways a little. “Come sit,” she suggests, taking his hand and pulling him over to the ornate couch. He reaches for her automatically, but can’t do more than paw ineffectually before he’s out.

And good riddance.

 

Rokia pulls up the video feeds again. The broadcast feed from the Arena, the Three mentors’ feed, the surveillance camera in the mentor control room.

Lyme’s sitting in one of the D2 mentor seats. Rokia scowls. All hell is going to break loose in that room as soon as they blow the Arena. Lyme may be Two but Rokia knows just how far her allegiance to the Capitol _doesn’t_ go, and if Rokia knows then so does Snow.

Is there some way she can get Lyme out of the room? She pulls up the feed for D2M. Brutus and Enobaria are planning something, stalking through the jungle. Lyme’s posture on the control room feed is taut, pressed toward the screen. No, even if the building were burning around her Lyme would stay and watch, because there’s nothing else she can do.

There are two hovercraft set to leave just after midnight. Six people flying out from the Games Complex hangar. Two craft, one planned and one for backup, in case something happens to the first one and because Thirteen wants all the equipment they can get their hands on.

Plutarch has access to everything in the Games Complex. Rokia looks through camera feeds until she finds the ones for the hangars. Hangar 10: the cargo craft, Wiress’ new design, shielded from electrical storms, fly-by-wire optional, the one that will take Plutarch and Haymitch out to pick up the Mockingjay.

She’s not sure which hangars have the other craft, until she goes looking for the communication system and realizes someone’s disabled any calls into hangars 13 and 15 from outside the Games Complex. Bingo.

The craft in 13 is bigger, Peacekeeper use, missiles loaded under the wing, snug against the belly of the craft. Fifteen must be the backup: it’s sleek, small, highest top speed of anything in the Capitol but no missiles. The kind of thing you take if your plan’s fallen apart and you just need to get out.

So. That’s another escape route.

Rokia looks back at the mentors. How can she get someone the message? She can’t exactly call Phillips and tell him. The mentor consoles?

They’re hardwired. To get in, she would have to reset the whole system—and that’d be like sending up a flare to tell everyone something was wrong.

Unless the console resets on its own.

Unless the tribute dies.

And Plutarch is the one who orders the cannons, and right now Rokia is Plutarch.

 

Rokia looks back at the Arena. Beetee is winding wire around the tree, while the others watch.

She looks around the mentors’ room, at the faces of the alliance members. They’re set, determined, unafraid. Eibhlin and Lumina have their shoulders pressed together, hands clasped.

If the forcefield blows, all bets are off. Every Arena system will short out, most likely, and who knows what the consoles will do. And Rokia needs to be on her way out of here as soon as it does, if she wants to make the train. Sara will kill her if she stays, waiting to get someone else out before herself.

She needs a cannon. Needs the cannon to reset the mentors’ readout when their tribute’s vitals flatline. It’s an opening.

If it’s close, she tells herself. If it’s near enough to midnight, if the tribute’s near enough to pass, if it’s Beetee or Finnick or—yes, if it’s Brutus she’s asking Lyme.

She sends a message to the pilot in Hangar 15: _Stand by for additional passenger, arriving by 00:10._

He can’t respond, but she sees him on the surveillance feed, sitting in the cockpit, and he nods, as if he knows she’s watching. Maybe he does.

The Arena feeds burst to life. Johanna knocks Katniss down, cuts out her tracker and takes off. Brutus and Enobaria crash through the underbrush and onto the beach.

Beetee tries to jam a knife into the forcefield and falls back, unconscious. Rokia hovers over the signal for the cannon, but it’s too soon, still ten minutes until midnight, and his heartbeat stutters but settles, his breathing light but steady. She waits.

Katniss stumbles up to the tree. Enobaria follows Finnick up moments later—

And the D2M vitals screen flashes red.

On the video feed, Brutus falls to the ground, muscles spasming.

Two minutes to midnight. Heartbeat irregular, racing then dropping, and now, this, Rokia can do something.

Brutus’ breath shudders out.

Rokia triggers the cannon, pushes the message through while the vitals readout resets.

Rokia sees when Lyme reads it—she freezes completely, forgets to breathe. The hovercraft comes—fast, they’re not usually that fast—and as the claw lifts Brutus up, Lyme stands up, walks out without a word.

Katniss looks at Finnick, at Enobaria, up at the forcefield. “Do it,” Rokia whispers. “Come on.” People have died for this. Will die for this. Make it mean something. Make this the first spark that sets the building on fire.

Katniss winds the fine wire around an arrow, points it toward the sky, and fires.

Lightning shoots down, and every Arena screen goes blank.

Rokia runs.


	2. District 8

Rokia arrives at the cargo docks out of breath and with nothing but the clothes on her back. And three things in her pockets: the switchblade Uncle Sal gave her when she was eleven, the smooth colorful piece of Six Gold that Phillips gave her as a token before her Games, and the little beetle from Wiress.

Three things, and she couldn’t take more, because running through midnight streets is suspicious enough, even in unremarkable clothes and her hair tied up so she’s less recognizable. But the only way to get here in time was to run, and Rokia has no doubt that the train’s leaving on time whether she’s on it or not. This is too important to wait.

She’s there in time, though, and someone’s waiting for her, a tall girl with dark skin skulking in the shadows until Rokia races up. Then the girl gives her a fierce grin and jerks her head towards one of the tracks. “C’mon,” she says. “We’ll talk once we’re moving.”

She jumps up into the crew car, reaches a hand down to haul Rokia up, and as soon as Rokia’s got both feet on the floor she feels the train jerk and accelerate. She presses a hand to the wall to steady herself, the motion leaves her reeling after everything, and looks at her companion.

“I’m Myriam,” the girl says. “I used to ride with your girl Sara, couple years ago.”

“Rokia,” she echoes, shrugging because it’s obvious but she never knows what to say. “Thanks.”

“Oh, Sara would strangle me if she knew I had a chance to get you out and didn’t take it,” Myriam says. She smirks. “And not in a fun way, either.”

Rokia’s so startled she laughs, then shakes her head. It’s too weird that after months of scheming with Plutarch’s band of important people, the thing that saved her is Sara’s obnoxious stubborn protectiveness.

And she’s way too amped up to sleep, on adrenaline and the stimulants that have gotten her through the last few days, but she needs to sit down, because nobody told her body that, and it’s threatening to dump her on her ass the next time the train jolts.

“You must be exhausted,” Myriam says, so apparently it’s pretty obvious. “C’mon, you can crash in the bunkroom.”

It’s dim and quiet, several bunks occupied with sleeping shapes, and Myriam whispers as she shows Rokia to an empty place. Rokia pulls off her shoes and lies down, pulling the thin scratchy blanket over her and trying to let the smells of oil, hot metal and lingering smoke ground her. Nothing in the Capitol smells like this.

It’s soothing, the smell, the small sounds of other people sleeping, the hard thin bunk, the sway of the train—more pronounced here than on the passenger trains she’s been on—and Rokia feels herself start to unwind, her heartbeat slowing down, her breath deepening. She counts breaths the way Lyme taught her once, count four on the inhale, six on the exhale, ten breaths at a time. Then when thinking about Lyme gets too close to everything else that’s happening she counts powers of two, doubling until she loses track and then starting over. Counts by seven, counts by seventeen, and then finally slides into something like sleep.

 

Rokia wakes up when the train shudders to a stop. So does everyone else in the room, and someone pushes curtains aside, looks out the window and swears under their breath.

Myriam comes in a second later. “Come on,” she says, sharp. “We gotta move.”

It’s full daylight, but beyond that Rokia has no idea of the time. They’re stopped somewhere, in a city, not at a station, and the crew jumps down onto the embankment until Myriam and Rokia are the only two left. Nobody takes much with them, but everyone except Rokia has at least a few things, packed into crew duffels and shoulder bags. “The Peacekeepers are at the station,” Myriam says, short and tense. “We gotta go.”

It’s a long way down, and Rokia lands with a jolt, then follows the others through the narrow, dingy streets. It feels like home, almost. They duck into a nondescript building and Rokia blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It’s quiet, so it takes a minute for Rokia to realize that the room is full of people. The crowd fills in from the walls, everyone looking around, until another door opens and a woman walks in.

She’s no different from anyone else, at first glance. But then she straightens her shoulders and walks to the front of the room and Rokia… thinks of Lyme, actually. The same ironclad confidence, easy movement and sharp looks. This woman’s dressed in a haphazard collection of cloth in brilliant colors, as are most of the others, but while it might look ridiculous on some, with her shoulders back and chin raised this woman looks anything but.

“Okay,” the woman says, clapping her hands once. All eyes face her. “I don’t know all of you, so for anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m Paylor. And I got no way of _making_ you do anything, but it’ll go a lot better for everyone if you all do what I say.”

There’s a few smiles, but no one laughs. Paylor goes on. “Most of you don’t have weapons. That’s fine. Peacekeepers have plenty, we just need to take theirs. We’ll start with the train station. There’s a crowd growing already, and as soon as we send the word, there’ll be a trainload of supplies coming in. Once we control the tracks, we got some leverage.”

The woman looks around the room again. Rokia looks too. There’s maybe a couple hundred people here, and while a few have weapons, most hands are empty. They’re not soldiers any more than Rokia is. They’re going to walk out of here and into gunfire, and if Rokia’d had trouble imagining the Arena and the escape, this—this is something else.

This isn’t about the Games, or the Mockingjay, or District 13, or any of the Victors. These people wouldn’t walk into fire for that. This is for _them._ This is long hours and high quotas and bad pay and too many injured, too many hungry kids and too much death while the Capitol shines far-off and untouchable. Rokia shivers, and starts to maybe understand what Sara’s been talking about all these years.

Sara. Rokia doesn’t know what she’s doing, only that she’s going to District Nine. Rokia’s imagination has nothing to offer beyond wide open fields with nowhere to hide, and a dusty little city she could walk across in half an hour. How Sara’s managing to disappear in that, Rokia has no idea. Only hopes she has, because there is no chance at all that Sara will keep her head down. Not now.

And then a siren wails, and someone ducks out. Everyone waits.

“Mandatory gathering,” he reports. “In the square.”

Paylor nods. “Good. Once they’re done with whatever they’re doing, we’ll head for the station. Bring your friends,” she adds, dryly. “We could use all the help we can get.”

 

Paylor walks over toward Rokia and the rail crew, while people file out. “Myriam,” she says, when she gets close. They shake hands, both grinning sharp and fierce. “Your folks’ll be sending us some fuel, that right?”

Myriam nods. “Got word it passed Six, it’s sitting on the line like everything else, on hold while the Capitol tries to figure out if there’s anyone in the Six switchyard they can trust. But they’ll come when we call.”

“And you’ve brought someone new,” Paylor adds, looking at Rokia, eyes searching, brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Rokia Diarra,” Myriam says, because Rokia’s still too overwhelmed to get her tongue untied. “Victor from Six.”

Rokia sees when the confusion resolves to recognition, and Paylor extends a hand. Rokia takes it, all too conscious of how Remake-smooth her hands are when she feels the rough calluses. “Welcome to Eight,” Paylor says. “We’ll see where to put you later but for now you should probably just stick with Myriam.”

Myriam nods. “I’ll keep her out of trouble for now, I hear she’s too useful to risk in a fight.”

Paylor raises one eyebrow. “I fix hovercraft,” Rokia says, her voice abrupt in her own ears.

“Among other things,” Myriam adds. “At least, if the rumors are true.”

Rokia shrugs. “I guess so,” she says, and they probably are, at least if Sara’s the one spreading the rumors.

“Good,” Paylor says. “We’ll have to go find you some, then.”

She’s not smiling. “Sounds good,” Rokia says.

“Alright, I gotta be in the square, and you all should hide out here till you get word,” Paylor says.

“Take care,” Myriam replies, shaking her hand again.

Paylor glances around once more and then walks out.

 

The room is cavernous now that it’s empty. There’s eight of them, nine with Rokia. Myriam leads the way to another door, up the stairs behind it, around a corner and to a room with windows looking toward the square. Rokia can’t see the square, but she sees the Peacekeeper vehicles in the streets around it, hears the noise as the loudspeakers crackle to life.

She’s expecting a performance, but this time it’s short clipped voices from the microphone, distorted by echoes and distance until they’re almost incomprehensible.

The gunshots, though, those carry. More than one, not precisely simultaneous but pretty damn close. There’s a ringing silence, after, and then the noise rises like a wave, shouts and gunfire, vehicles and sirens, and Rokia stops even trying to make sense of it.

She looks around at the others. Rokia doesn’t recognize any of them, not that she’d expect to. They’re ordinary railroaders, mostly a little older than Sara, sitting on the floor with their legs stretched out and heads tipped back against the wall. Resting. Waiting, because there’s nothing to do right now. Rokia’s restless, working hard to stay sitting still, and Myriam chuckles, low and warm.

“You’re just like her,” she says. “Sara,” she adds, seeing Rokia’s confusion. “Can’t sit still, don’t wanna miss out.”

Rokia feels heat in her cheeks, hopes it doesn’t show. “I slept all the way here,” she says. “I’m ready to go.”

Myriam’s still smiling fondly. “You must’ve been tired, you slept all day.”

So it’s afternoon, then. Good to know.

 

The sounds shift, getting quieter, moving away. Toward the station, presumably, hopefully, and they take turns peeking out the windows but nobody’s coming this way. It’s well into the night before they hear the door open downstairs, and a mockingjay’s whistle. Useful, that. Recognizable, even in the city, and pretty damn unlikely to be a Peacekeeper. They move down the stairs into the open room below.

Paylor’s there, sweating and dirty and banged up but whole. A few others with her aren’t as lucky. People start flooding in after, bringing what medical supplies they can find, blankets and bedding and food and water. Paylor sees Myriam and walks over.

“Call your people,” she says, exhausted but triumphant. “Tell them to bring that stuff in, quick as they can. We’ve got the station, but who knows for how long.”

Paylor glances at Rokia. “You know how those Peacekeeper transports work?” she asks. “They left a couple when they pulled back to their barracks, and we need to get stuff distributed before they get reinforcements and come back out.”

Rokia shrugs. “Probably,” she says. “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

“Good,” Paylor says. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll make the call,” Myriam says, turning toward the stairs.

Paylor motions toward a kid, hovering in the corner like he’s hoping nobody’ll notice and kick him out. “You, kid, you bring her down to the station when she’s done,” Paylor calls.

“Yes ma’am!” The kid’s eyes light up and he dashes for the stairs after Myriam.

Paylor walks fast enough Rokia has to work to keep up, through streets full of milling people. There’s nothing strange until they get close to the square—and there it starts. The stage is up, like for the Tour, or the Reaping. Rokia almost doesn’t notice the hooded bodies slumped on the rough planks—in bright Eight clothes, the bloodstains blending in with one woman’s red and gold dress.

There’s more people in the square—not all dead, some are moving, or have people kneeling next to them, but a few of the bodies are left huddled on the ground, because for them there's no need to hurry.

Paylor slows a little to look at what’s happening, then takes a deep breath, looks back at Rokia. “Come on,” she says. “We’re needed.”

Rokia follows, feeling like she’s in a bad dream, the shadows of buildings creeping close, the noise, the smells, the people who could almost be from Six except for their clothes. But it’s not a dream. It’s not, and she blinks hard once, twice, and hurries after Paylor.

 

Paylor stops in front of a Peacekeeper transport. It’s wedged into a driveway, the hood crumpled a little against the corner of a big brick factory building. “If it’ll run, we need it,” Paylor said. “Think you could help?”

Rokia nods, looks around and realizes she doesn’t have any tools. Maybe there’ll be something in the vehicle. “I think so,” she says, wrenching open the passenger side door. “Probably just body damage, nothing important.” She looks under the seat, and there it is: a toolkit the size of a shoebox. When she opens it she grins, despite everything. Even if there’s something serious wrong with this truck, the toolbox itself will be worth the trouble.

Paylor glances around. “Okay, I’ll send someone back to help,” she says, “I gotta get ready for that train.”

“Okay,” Rokia says, absent-mindedly, and goes around to the drivers side to see what she can do.

It’d be too much to ask for the PKs to leave the keys, even in a rush, but that’s not the end of the world. Rokia’s never stolen cars, but she knows, in theory, how it’s done. The hood’s not locked, that’s just a lever, and she takes more of the paint off scraping against the brick wall as she opens it up but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what she finds inside: the radiator’s intact, nothing seems to be leaking in any obvious way, so they should be able to drive it just fine. She’s back in the drivers seat and prying out wires when a kid comes up behind her, sidling along the brick wall.

“Who’re you?” Rokia snaps.

The kid grins. “Paylor told me to come find you.” Rokia’s not sure if the kid’s a boy or a girl, they’re young enough to have gaps where their front teeth should be, and the t-shirt and bright green pants could go either way.

“Okay. What’s your name?” Rokia asks.

“Janine,” the kid says, and on that basis Rokia will guess “girl,” but without too much confidence.

“Okay, Janine,” Rokia says. “Come here and get in the car, as soon as I get it started we’re going, and I don’t want to have to go find you.”

Janine’s whole face lights up. She’s Allie’s age, just about, and Rokia has to swallow a lump in her throat before she can boost the kid up onto the high seat.

Janine sits pretty still, for a kid—mostly she stares out the window as though it were television—and that’s a relief, because hot-wiring a car turns out to be tricky.

She manages, finally, and the engine roars to life, loud and powerful. Janine’s head whips around to stare at Rokia, then out at the front. Her eyes are huge, half scared, half excited.

Rokia sighs, pulls her door closed, and eases the truck back away from the wall. “Which way, Janine?” she asks. Janine points, still wide-eyed and speechless, and Rokia heads out onto unfamiliar streets.

 

She’s just pulling up to the station when she hears a train whistle. Myriam’s standing on the platform, next to Paylor and some other folks Rokia doesn’t recognize, but turns and waves when someone notices the truck and nudges her.

A man rushes up to the window. “Over there,” he says, pointing to a loading bay. “Quick.”

Rokia goes where he tells her, then goes around to the back and opens the double doors. It’s a big space, in back, enough for maybe six people, three per side on uncomfortable-looking benches. There’s stuff strapped against the walls, and Rokia starts pulling it down—they can see what’s useful, chuck the rest, and they’ll want as much space back here as they can get.

A few more vehicles pull up—a battered pickup that looks like Sal’s, another slightly-damaged transport, what looks like a bicycle with a truck bed attached— and pretty soon people start bringing sacks full of…something that looks like salt, and smells sharp.

Once the transport’s full, a guy comes over and opens the passenger door. “I’ll show you where to go,” he says.

Janine’s fallen asleep in the truck. The man shakes her gently. “Hey, kid, you should get home,” he says. “Come on, hop down.”

Janine sits up, looks around, and shakes her head. “No,” she says, lower lip sticking out. “I wanna stay.”

Rokia, sitting in the drivers seat, has to smile. “Slide over then, toward me,” she says, the way she would if it were Kadi being obstinate. “There’s plenty of room.”

Janine slides all the way across the bench seat until she’s leaning against Rokia, settles from stubbornness back to sleepy relaxation. The guy rolls his eyes, hops up, and pulls the door closed.

 

Rokia loses count of how many trips they make, all over the city, with bags of, it turns out, fertilizer, buckets and barrels and flasks of diesel from the train’s engine, boxes with who knows what. The guy directing her turns out to be a factory foreman named Weaver—first or last name, Rokia’s not sure. When it becomes clear Janine isn’t going anywhere, he pulls her over to lean against him, so it’s easier for Rokia to drive. They’re heading back to the station when Rokia hears a roar, looks up just in time to see a hovercraft uncloak and start firing toward the station. She slams on the brakes, looks over at Weaver, tries not to look at Janine, who’s awake, terrified, and for now at least too shocked for tears.

“Turn left,” Weaver says, sharp. “My place is just close.”

They pull up to the loading doors of an apartment building. Weaver jumps out, opens them, motions her through into a covered garage, dumpster to one side, stairs to the other.

Rokia pulls Janine over towards her, helps the kid down. Janine doesn’t want Rokia to let her down, but she’s too big for Rokia to hold for long. “What now?” Rokia asks.

“We wait,” Weaver says. “Come on.”

They walk up four flights of stairs, through an unlit hallway, where Weaver unlocks a door, turns on a light, and motions them in, Janine clinging to Rokia’s hand. Weaver locks the door behind them, leads them out into the one-room apartment. Rokia looks around. Mattress in one corner, table and chair in another, door to what’s probably a bathroom just where they came in. It could be Six. Rokia really doesn’t want to think about Six right now.

Weaver crouches down. “Janine, honey, where’s your Mom?”

Janine shrugs her shoulders, palms up. “We went to the square, and then she ran away with everybody, and then I went to the station because that’s where everyone else went.” She looks at Rokia. “Then Miz Paylor said she needed somebody to go down 5th street and show Miz Rokia the way to the station and I said I’d go.”

Weaver looks up at Rokia. She shrugs, shakes her head. How are they going to find anyone with just that to go on?

“Okay,” Weaver says, getting up. “Lemme see if I can find you something to eat, and then we’ll see what to do.”

Outside, it’s starting to get light. Rokia walks over to the one window. There’s a hovercraft poised above the Peacekeeper barracks, ramp lowered, as the last of the white-uniformed figures walk out. Rokia shudders. They got their supplies in, these Eight rebels, but the fight is just starting.

 

Rokia tells Weaver to get some sleep, settles herself at the window. Janine sleeps too, curled against Weaver’s side. So Rokia sees when the squad of Peacekeepers comes up the road.

At first she thinks they're just patrolling, but they come straight toward her, don't hesitate or look into alleyways. They're moving like they're going somewhere. And that somewhere is here. How could they know?

The transport. There must have been trackers in the transport.

They have to move. Right now.

“Weaver,” she says, soft but urgent. He wakes up fast, looks over. “Peacekeepers. We have to leave.”

He doesn't ask if she's sure, just stands and scoops up Janine. “Come on,” he says, walks to the door.

They walk away from the stairs they came in by, to the other end of the hall and what looks like a broom closet. Weaver motions Rokia in, then follows and sets Janine, awake now, onto her feet. He puts a finger to his lips, then reaches for a broom.

One of the ceiling tiles moves when he pushes it with the end of the broom. He glances at Rokia, who moves so he can help her up into the small space. He passes Janine up to her, then scrambles up himself. Rokia can sit up in here, barely, but Weaver is bent over, his knees brushing Rokia's. He pushes the tile back into place, and everything goes dark.

Janine whimpers. “Shhhh,” Rokia says, pulls the kid onto her lap. “It's okay,” she whispers. “We just need to be very quiet, alright? Can you do that for me?”

Rokia can feel Janine’s head nod, and she reaches out a hand, automatic, to stroke the girl’s hair.

Then a door bangs open, down the hall, and Janine stiffens, sucks in a breath but stays quiet. Bang, bang, bang, all the way down the hallway, doors opening and people screaming and kids crying, Peacekeepers shouting for people to get downstairs. The door to the closet opens, light spilling in through the cracks in the ceiling tiles. Rokia holds Janine close, closes her eyes, holds her breath while the Peacekeepers search the little room, banging on the walls and knocking the brooms and mops to the floor.

And then the sound stops, but the door stays open, leaving enough dim grey light for Rokia to see Weaver’s shoulders fall, his eyes close in relief. Janine’s crying again, silently.

They don't move, not yet. The noise moves to the floor above them, continues moving up, quieter and quieter, while footsteps clatter down the stairs.

And then silence, and then an explosion of gunfire, and in the shocked ringing silence after that, the sound of an engine starting, driving away.

 

It stays quiet after that, and eventually Rokia glances up at Weaver, raises an eyebrow in silent question. He nods. “Come on,” he says, quiet and somber, and shifts the ceiling tile. Rokia hands Janine down to him once he's on the ground, then slides down herself. Her feet and legs tingle with the sudden movement after long stillness, and she has to lean on the wall for a moment before she can find her balance.

Weaver, still holding Janine, walks slowly out into the deserted hallway. Rokia follows him out, down the stairs, and out to the street.

She was expecting it, but that doesn't lessen the horror. Bodies lay strewn in the street, blood pooling. Weaver steps through the mess, one hand holding Janine’s face against his chest until they reach the end of the block and turn away.

“It won't have been everyone,” he says, in a low, choked voice. “Lot of folks were out, at work. Maybe some hid.”

It was enough. Rokia forces herself not to try and count, but the street was full. She swallows, breathes. “We should find Paylor,” she says, and he nods, looks around, and starts walking.

They barely make it into what's rapidly becoming a hospital before Myriam comes racing over, traps Rokia in a hug. “Oh, thank fuck,” she says, stepping away. “Sara would kill me if I lost you.”

Rokia tries to smile.

“What happened?” Myriam asks, looking worried again. “What's wrong?” She looks at Weaver, the kid, back to Rokia.

“They found the transport,” Rokia says. “They must have trackers in them somewhere.”

Myriam's eyes go wide and she takes a breath, lets it out slow between her teeth.

“We hid. They shot everyone they found.”

Myriam glances at Weaver again, as if she hopes he’ll deny it, but he just looks right back. She takes another deep breath, nods, looks around.

“Okay,” she says, subdued, “come on, I was talking to some folks, you should meet them.”

But before they can go, Janine starts struggling. Weaver lets her down carefully, and she takes off across the room, yelling “Mama!”

A woman whips around to look, and for a second relief leaves her face blank. Then Janine gets to her, and she wraps her arms around the girl, tears leaking from closed eyes.

Rokia looks at Weaver, but he just shrugs, so apparently he doesn't know the woman either. Myriam just looks confused, so Rokia and Weaver turn and follow her past cots and blankets to the stairway.

 

There's a radio near the back of the room, a couple guys from the train crew, Paylor, and some people who must be from Eight. They're all talking, in twos and threes, heads together, glancing around. Myriam walks toward Paylor.

“We can keep the tracks down,” Paylor is saying. “But if they just keep flying people in, that won't matter.” She looks up as they approach, nods. “Good, you made it,” she says, matter-of-fact, then glances from Rokia to Myriam to Weaver. “What happened?”

“Tracker in the transport,” Weaver starts explaining, and Rokia looks around the room, wondering what on earth they want her to do here.

“Rokia?” Myriam asks, and Rokia looks over, a little guilty for getting distracted. “Someone named Beetee wants you to go to Thirteen?”

“You talked to Beetee?” Rokia asks. “He's okay?”

“I guess,” Myriam says. “Alive and talking, anyway.”

Then Rokia processes the rest of the sentence. “How?”

Myriam looks confused.

“How am I supposed to get to Thirteen?”

Myriam sighs. “He says he'll try to send a hovercraft, but apparently we shouldn't count on it.”

Rokia can’t do anything but stare.


	3. District 13

The Peacekeepers leave three days later. A small flock of hovercraft disappear from the barracks, spin across the city and wheel off in the direction of the Capitol.

It’s strange. They’ve been making trouble, sure: Paylor has people up on roofs with stolen weapons, taking shots at patrols and running away; they blew up most of the cargo station when it looked like the Peacekeepers were going to take it back; and the train tracks are torn up for miles, all through the city.

But it doesn’t seem like enough, not to make the Capitol give up and evacuate.

So Rokia’s suspicious, even while Paylor and Myriam and the rest are celebrating.

That night the bombs start dropping. The hovercraft uncloak mere moments before the explosions start, at the factories, around the center of town, the building across the street from where Rokia is still staying above the hospital, when she’s not out fixing stolen cars or jammed rifles or searching through equipment for trackers. They’re in everything. Tiny silver capsules, wedged into the rangefinder on the rifles, buried deep inside the wiring for the trucks and transports, even sometimes in helmets and boots and uniform jackets. Once Rokia finds their transmitting frequency, she cannibalizes a radio and the electronics from a truck’s navigation system into a detector, sweeps everything she can get near.

At first she just disables the things, shorting them out with a car battery and waiting till she sees smoke. Then Myriam gives her a better idea.

There’s ten or so in the building across the street, still transmitting. There’s trackers in each building the bombs target—but none of Paylor’s people.

 

Myriam comes to find Rokia early in the morning, after the bombs have stopped falling, before the sun is fully up.

“You need a hovercraft, right?” Myriam says, leaning against the doorframe. “To get to Thirteen?” She’s sweaty and dirty from checking the damage, a rifle slung over one shoulder, exhausted but grinning, eyes still sharp.

Rokia looks up from the second tracker detector she’s building and shrugs.

“Bet you those PKs left a couple,” Myriam drawls. “We could probably borrow one.”

Rokia blinks. She didn’t count how many craft left yesterday, doesn’t know how many would be stationed in Eight normally, but…there would probably be a few. The little patrol and attack craft, none of those flew out, they’re too small to be worth it for transporting people, and every district has a few.

And none of the bombs fell on the Peacekeepers’ base. “Why didn’t they blow them up when they left?” Rokia wonders.

Myriam shrugs. “Probably figured they’d be back,” she says. “Didn’t want to waste resources.”

Rokia takes a deep breath, sets down the electronics and gets to her feet. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go check.”

Myriam flashes her a quick pleased smile and nods. “I’ll come, we’ll bring your friend Weaver, he’s good with his hands.”

There’s a hint of…something…there. “Oh yeah?” Rokia asks, quirking one eyebrow.

Myriam looks away. “Yeah,” she says. “Come on, we should go while it’s still a little dark, just in case.”

Well. That’s something.

 

Weaver is waiting downstairs. There’s a handful of others just outside the door.

“We’re gonna see what else useful we can find,” Weaver explains. “Might be some bigger guns, for when those bombers come back.”

Rokia nods. “Let’s go.”

The city is barely recognizable as the same place Rokia arrived less than a week ago. The center of town is almost deserted, and after tonight bombed-out buildings line the streets like broken teeth. Broken glass crackles underfoot, and Rokia almost loses her footing stepping on a bullet casing. She kicks it out of the way, keeps walking.

The gate to the Peacekeepers’ base is locked, of course. The fence isn’t electrified; nowhere in this part of town has had power for days. But that also means the biometric scanners are down, automatically bolting the huge steel gate.

Rokia looks around, wondering if there’s some way to get temporary power to it, if there’s some emergency override for in case of fire—and then notices someone cutting the no-longer-electrified fence wire with bolt cutters.

Of course. No reason they have to use the _gate_ to get in.

It’s almost stranger here than in town, because it’s so pristine. Not even any broken windows, and perfectly silent except for the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. It feels like a dream, especially with the pre-dawn mist softening everything to uncertain grey shapes.

People split off in twos and threes, wrenching doors open or smashing windows, looking for anything that could be of use. Rokia keeps walking, looking for the hangars, Myriam and Weaver following.

They’re toward the back, near where the base meets the river, a long low building Rokia recognizes instantly.

The door is open. Left that way, maybe, as the evacuation finished. Trusting that they’d be back, or that the gate would hold, or that nobody in Eight would know what to do with anything inside.

Joke’s on them. They didn’t know about Rokia.

It’s mostly empty, all the larger craft gone. But there’s three little attack craft toward the back, small and sleek and deadly, faster than anything in the sky if they need to be.

Rokia walks over to the first one, hits the switch to open the cockpit. It works.

Myriam sucks in a quick breath. “You can fly these?” she asks.

Rokia nods. “Probably,” she qualifies, “I’ve never flown anything like this, but I’ve flown other craft, and I’ve fixed these, so I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Myriam shakes her head, but she looks amused. Weaver’s waiting in the doorway, keeping watch. “Sure you can,” she says. “Okay, go on then.”

She looks a little disappointed, and Rokia can’t quite see why until she realizes—she’s leaving. She isn’t just flying, she’s flying _away_ , and who knows if she’ll see Myriam again. Rokia pauses, hand on the step to the cockpit. “Thank you,” she says, looking Myriam in the eye. “And…be careful.”

Myriam steps forward and hugs Rokia tight. “You too, kid,” she says, stepping back. “I’m glad Sara trusted me to get you out.”

Rokia isn’t sure what to say to that, so she turns and hauls herself into the cockpit.

Systems check: avionics, guidance, stabilization, cloaking, comms. As soon as those come on she shifts frequencies, finds the ones D13 is using, hopes they’ll read her through Capitol encryption, and calls in what you might call a flight plan: “This is Rokia Diarra, leaving D8 now, need coordinates for D13 landing zone immediately.”

She starts taxiing while she waits, steering carefully past Myriam and Weaver—he waves, she waves back—and as she’s getting to the takeoff pad the radio comes back. “Copy,” says a strange voice. “Cleared for landing at the following coordinates.”

Rokia takes a deep breath, eases her way into the sky, and turns east toward Thirteen.

 

* * *

  

There’s nothing at the landing zone. It’s an unremarkable patch of grass, a gap in the trees barely big enough for her craft to settle, but as soon as the wheels touch there’s a jolt and the whole thing descends, fast, into the earth.

It’s dark, until the bottom, where the shaft opens out into a hangar bigger than anything Rokia’s ever seen. Someone’s signaling her off the landing pad, and she follows until she’s parked between two hulking, bulky, unfamiliar black hovercraft. Then she opens the cockpit and climbs down.

A man and a woman step out of the shadows to greet her. The woman has hair like sheet metal, grey and straight, the man is tall and thin, mouth set, close-cropped hair.

“Rokia Diarra?” The man asks. Rokia nods.

His face shifts just slightly, like she’s done something wrong. But he just goes on. “You’ve come from District Eight in that?”

She nods again. The man glances at the woman, who speaks up now. “Are there more of those hovercraft?”

Again, Rokia nods, then takes a deep breath. “Two others, just like this.”

The two of them study her, then share a look that’s full of spinning gears.

“Wait here,” the man says, and walks away.

Rokia stands still, looking around. It’s a huge room, fluorescent-lit, full of hovercraft, missiles, machinery. All the hovercraft are like the ones she’s next to, black hulks just different enough from the Capitol craft she knows to look wrong.

The woman’s still standing there, looking at Rokia, clearly calculating something. But she doesn’t say anything, so Rokia keeps quiet and waits.

The tall man comes back with two others, who walk past Rokia and climb up to the cockpit. The thing’s built for one pilot, one gunner, but the man in the gunner’s seat stands up, leaning forward over the other’s shoulder. They’re running through a pre-flight checklist, looks like.

They stop before they get to actually starting the main engines, climb down, and talk in low voices with the tall man. He looks pleased, nods, and they come over to Rokia and the other woman.

“Yes?” the woman asks, and he nods. “Good. Miss Diarra, you will go with these men to pick up the other hovercraft and bring them here. Before the Capitol destroys them.”

Rokia blinks. “I couldn’t disable guidance, ma’am,” she says, dropping into formality because it seems to be expected. When that just gets her blank looks, she continues. “They’ll know I brought this one here.”

The woman’s face pinches tight. “Well, then you should hurry.”

Nobody else questions her, so Rokia takes a deep breath and nods.

“Come on,” one of the pilots says. “I’ll drive.” He smiles at Rokia briefly, the first thing that settles the tightening in her stomach that’s been building since she stepped out of the cockpit.

They climb into one of the black craft, the men in pilot and co-pilot seats. Rokia sees the jump seat behind them and settles in, as they rush through pre-flight checks. It’s not till they’re on a platform rising quickly toward the surface that the co-pilot looks back.

“I’m Gabe,” he says. He doesn’t reach a hand back to shake, just gives her a crooked smile.

“I’m Carson,” the pilot says, his eyes still on his instruments but his voice is friendly.

“Rokia,” she says.

“You fly?” Gabe asks. “I mean…obviously you _can_ fly, but…you’re a pilot?”

Rokia shakes her head. “I’m a mechanic. I’ve flown a little.”

Gabe raises an eyebrow. “More than a little, if you can handle that thing,” he says. Rokia shrugs, and Gabe looks like he’s going to continue, but then a set of huge doors opens and they’re pushed up toward the sky.

“Okay,” says Carson, “Let’s go.”

It’s not as fast as the attack craft, not as smooth, not as quiet, but the thing moves well. The noise is too much for real conversation, but both men speak into some kind of comms, and Rokia picks up a bit of it. They’re calling Myriam, telling her they’re coming, monitoring Capitol frequencies to try to detect anyone else coming for those hovercraft, they’re moving as fast as they can but if the Capitol really wants to they could get there first.

That’s not exactly comforting, but it’s not like there’s anything Rokia can do about it, so she tries not to worry.

Myriam’s standing at the hangar doorway when they pull up.

“C’mon,” Gabe says, climbing out. “You get one, I’ll get one, and let’s get out of here.”

Rokia follows him at nearly a run, pausing only to wave at Myriam, who shakes her head and waves back. Then she’s back in the cockpit, rushing through her checks, following Gabe out the door.

Her radio blares a proximity alarm as they approach the takeoff zone. Carson is already in the air with the craft they came in on, and Rokia sees him turn west and shift, sees when he arms the missiles tucked under the wings. Gabe gets in the air and turns to join Carson, but when Rokia tries to follow he cuts into her comms abruptly. “Go,” he says. “We’ll meet you.”

Rokia hesitates, but that was an order, and now is obviously not the time to argue. So she sets course for the same coordinates as last time, and speeds away as fast as she can.

She hears Gabe and Carson on the radio, yelling short, sharp commands, sees the Capitol craft appear on her guidance screen, sees one of them go down, sees what her guidance system labels as enemy craft take a hit, descend too fast to be intentional, stop on the western outskirts of the city, sees one of the Capitol craft turn to follow her—she hopes it’s Gabe but it’s hard to tell, and something is jamming her comms frequencies so she can’t ask.

But it’s only one craft, and that has to be a good sign. Probably.

She finds the tiny landing zone, endures the seemingly endless descent into the hangar, and rushes to climb out as soon as she’s directed to land.

There’s only the signal guy and the tall man from earlier, the woman’s left. Rokia rushes over. “Gabe? And Carson?”

The man’s face is pinched. “Gabe is on his way in. Carson went down and has not reported in.”

Rokia swallows. “He’s dead?”

“It’s possible.”

“But not for sure?”

The man gives her a sharp look. “We have no confirmation. We’ve requested that Paylor investigate the crash site.”

There’s a burst of activity then, and the landing pad descends again, another small Capitol craft sitting on top, missiles missing but otherwise apparently undamaged.

Gabe climbs out of the cockpit. He glances at Rokia, then salutes the man in front of her.

“Commander,” he says, then stops until the man nods. “Carson went down half a mile west of the city, no confirmation of status. I believe I hit one of the enemy, but disengaged to return to base. Craft is unharmed.”

The commander nods. “Dismissed,” he says. Gabe glances at Rokia, looks her over like he’s checking for damage, then nods and walks away.

“Come with me,” the commander says. “We’ll get you registered.”

 

By mid-afternoon, Rokia’s sitting on a bed in a spare box of a room with her newly-issued uniforms, supplies, manuals, hair cut short and a schedule inked on her wrist. It tells her she has half an hour before she should report for firearms training.

There isn’t much to see in the room, but it’s quiet, and she’s alone, and no one is asking questions or expecting her to say anything, and after all the activity of the day it’s a welcome change. So she sits, watching the clock on the wall until she has to go find the training area.

It’s near the surface, behind a thick steel door with a sign that reads “Authorized Personnel Only.” Rokia figures the ink on her arm counts as authorization, and walks through.

There are a few others in the room already, chatting in little clumps.

A girl rushes over with a friendly smile. “They said I was getting a roommate, is that you?”

“I…guess?” Rokia tries not to flinch back from the enthusiasm.

“I’m Lilly,” the girl says. “From Twelve, we just got here a couple days ago, isn’t this place something?”

“I’m Rokia, from Six,” Rokia says, “Got here this morning.”

“You’re a Victor, aren’t you? That’s great! Welcome to Thirteen!”

“Uh, thanks,” Rokia says. She’s spared having to come up with anything else to say when the door opens and the instructor walks in.

They spend the next two hours learning how to assemble and disassemble, clean and maintain guns, and finally shooting them at paper targets downrange. They’re not Peacekeepers’ guns, but they’re close enough that all Rokia can think of is riot cops breaking up a strike, evicting squatters, executing supposed drug smugglers in front of the Justice Building. Even with headphones protecting her ears it’s loud, sharp cracks coming from both sides. She sees the instructor approaching from the corner of her eye but she still can’t keep herself from jumping when he puts a hand on her shoulder, adjusts her grip on the barrel of the rifle.

She’s not a terrible shot, when she can keep her hands steady, but Rokia hates it: hates the noise, hates the recoil jolting her shoulders, hates the sharp gunpowder and metal tang in the air. Hates watching the others joke about their aim, joke about how the targets should be shaped like Peacekeepers, or at least like deer or rabbits or something worth shooting. Hates it, but does what she’s told until it’s over and they’re cleaning the weapons a final time, putting them away in racks for the next group, walking out into the hallway.

Then Lilly finds her. “I’m sure hungry after all that,” she says, falling into step next to Rokia. “Good thing it’s dinnertime, you know where to go?”

Rokia shakes her head, feeling half-deafened in the relative quiet of the hallway.

“Come on, I’ll show you, we’ll be on the same schedule anyway.” Lilly keeps moving and Rokia follows along in her wake as the corridors get busier, echoing with footsteps and voices.

The cafeteria is the size of Sal’s hangar. Rokia takes the tray that’s handed to her, follows Lilly to a table half-full already of what Rokia assumes are more refugees from Twelve.

“You’re Lilly’s new roommate?” someone asks as Rokia sits down.

“Yeah, I’m Rokia.”

“She’s a Victor,” Lilly says, excitedly. “She _flew_ here. In a hovercraft.”

That gets some considering looks from the others. They’re mostly older than Lilly, who Rokia’d guess was about the same age she is. “Well ain’t that something else,” one woman says, and that seems to be the final word on the subject, as people go back to their food.

After dinner, Lilly leads Rokia back to their room for something called “Reflection” and studying the stacks of manuals they were both issued. And then, just about when Rokia has lost patience with Lilly’s periodic “Sorry but—“ random questions, the clock chimes and Lilly looks up.

“Come on, we better wash up before the lights go out,” she says. When Rokia looks confused she goes on. “Lights out at nine,” she says. “Saves electricity, I guess. They come back on half-strength at 5:00.”

Rokia’s schedule for today didn’t start until noon, and she didn’t realize the “Lights Out” at 9:00PM was literal. But she gets up, splashes water on her face, brushes her teeth and is settled in bed before the lights go out and plunge the room into total darkness.

“Goodnight, Rokia,” Lilly calls quietly from the other side of the room.

“Goodnight,” Rokia calls back, and for the first time in a long time she can’t keep from thinking about Allie and Kadi, where they are right now, who might be saying goodnight to them—and then she forces herself to calculate wingspans and material requirements so she doesn’t cry.

 

Rokia wakes up gasping, in total darkness, unsure where she is or why or even _who_ she is until she catches her breath and her heart stops feeling like it’s trying to beat its way out of her chest.

Thirteen. Right. And the lights will come halfway on at five, and Rokia has no idea what time it is now other than “before five.”

It’s quiet, except for the quiet sound of the ventilation system, occasional footsteps outside—and how can they see, if all the lights are out?—and Lilly’s sleep-soft breathing across the room. Everything feels loud, though, even things that aren’t sounds, like the scratchy wool blanket tickling her chin. Loud, and unfamiliar, and wrong, and nothing has felt right since she left Six, a lifetime ago even though when she counts back it’s less than a month. Everything’s strange and wrong and uncertain and she’s surrounded by people and still all alone. And she’s tired. Tired enough it’s an all-over ache, pulsing behind her eyes, twisting up her stomach, tightening her shoulders and making her limbs heavy and dull. Tired, but awake, threads of thought twisting out in all directions and all she can do is pull back the ones heading for dangerous places.

Like wondering what happened to her sisters. Grandma was supposed to put them on a train out into the wild north the night the Arena fell, but Rokia has no way of knowing if that’s what actually happened. They planned it that way, it’s safer that way for everyone, but lying here listening to someone else’s sleeping breaths across a small room Rokia would give anything for the lights to come on and reveal Allie and Kadi, curled together on the narrow bunk.

But that’s too dangerous to think about.

Lyme might be here, somewhere, her very own schedule inked on her wrist, learning to shoot guns as though she wasn’t already more dangerous than anyone here without one.

Beetee is definitely here, and he wanted Rokia here, and that’s the best compliment she’s gotten, possibly ever. She still has the tiny beetle from Wiress, and Rokia is almost certain it’s not just a sentimental gift, and if anyone can figure out what Wiress hid inside, it’s Beetee. Because Wiress is dead—really dead, throat slit bleeding out into the water startled-looking eyes going blank and staring, hands that made the little wire creature useless against a trained killer with a blade.

Wiress is dead and Lumina and Eibhlin are who knows where having who knows what done to them, and Rokia didn’t save any of them—and Beetee still wanted her. Wants her? Does he know?

And who else came out with their Mockingjay? Myriam said Thirteen saved her, and more Victors besides, but she didn’t say who and Rokia couldn’t bring herself to ask. There’s no good answers.

And whatever’s happening to Lumina and Eibhlin is happening to Phillips, too.

And later today Rokia is going to have to train to fire a gun again so she can—what? She’s never going to be good in a gun fight. She’ll always be small and she’ll always hate it and while maybe shooting the people who hurt Phillips sounds good from this distance, the idea of doing it up close, seeing blood spray and bullets punch holes through actual living people—

She’s to report to the hangars in the morning, first thing. She’ll need to learn about the D13 hovercraft, see what’s different and what’s the same. See if there’s a way to use what she knows about the Capitol craft to improve the shielding, or the stealth, or the speed. Patch-weld bullet-riddled wing panels. Fix the electronics on the Capitol craft that brought the Victors from the Arena but is all fucked up from the lightning and no one here knows what to do. Figure out how much fuel can be pumped through the system, how fast, for how much power, and how to use it more efficiently.

She’s still thinking about that one when the lights come on. Lilly makes a reluctant noice and stretches, but Rokia practically jumps out of bed, she’s so glad to finally be able to get up.

She splashes water on her face, presents her arm to the scheduler, and sees that she isn’t scheduled for breakfast until 6:00, reporting to the hangars at 6:45. Fuck that. She pushes open the door and heads for the elevator.

 

The hangars are brightly lit and busy and everyone mostly ignores Rokia and keeps working. So at least something feels right. She looks around, finds the little corner office, and introduces herself.

Everyone wears the same uniform, but this guy looks like he’s in charge. “I didn’t think you were coming until later,” he says, poking at something snapped around his wrist.

Rokia shrugs. “Figured I might as well get started,” she says.

He gives her a sharp look, then nods. “Start with getting that Capitol thing sorted. Tool cabinet’s along the wall, find me if you need something that’s not there.”

“Okay,” Rokia says, and gets to work.

 

Her wrist says she’s supposed to have breakfast, and lunch, and calisthenics, but Rokia’s busy checking miles of wiring and doesn’t bother. When it’s time for combat training, though, Lilly walks hesitantly over to where Rokia’s working and calls her name.

“They sent me to get you,” Lilly says, biting at her lip. “We’re late.”

Rokia sighs, sets down her tools, and follows Lilly out.

She goes to dinner afterwards, because she should probably eat something, and then heads back to the hangars.

She’s still there when the lights-out bell chimes, and she has to rush to get back to her room before the lights plunge her back into darkness.

 

It turns out she can skip everything except combat training and nobody really cares. And then, one night when Rokia absolutely cannot fall asleep she gives up, pushes the door open, and notices the dim emergency lighting is plenty to see by.

It’s not enough to read by, but it might be enough for working on the damaged fuel lines she started on earlier. So she heads for the hangars.

Where she’s surprised to find the lights on and a low hum of activity, as pilots run checks and a few mechanics are working. The relief leaves her nearly breathless, and Rokia finds her tools and gets to work.

 

After dinner, she decides it’s time to find Beetee. On the wall of the hangar is a map of sorts, with most areas marked. Rokia’s not sure where to look until she sees the section labeled “Research and Development.” That’ll be it.

When Rokia gets there, she realizes it’s a whole warren of little rooms, and she can’t very well go around opening random doors. So when she sees someone walking toward her she straightens her shoulders, tries to look official, and asks where she can find Beetee Latier.

The woman gives her a careful look, then points. “Special Weapons, just down there.”

“Thanks,” Rokia says, and hurries over.

She pushes open the door into a wide, bright room full of—everything. She looks around for Beetee, doesn’t see him until a man in a wheelchair comes around a corner and faces Rokia.

Beetee. Looking older, and tireder, and sadder, but what else could she expect?

He adjusts his glasses and looks at her, a thin smile starting. “Rokia,” he says. “I heard you had found your way here. Welcome to Thirteen.”

There’s suddenly a lump in Rokia’s throat that makes it hard to breathe. So she just holds out Wiress’ little beetle, and Beetee goes still.

“She gave it to me,” Rokia says, her voice low and scraping in her own ears. “I don’t think it’s just a toy.”

Beetee’s just staring at the thing, but he glances up at her. “No,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I doubt that.” He turns and starts toward a bank of electronics and computer terminals, and Rokia follows.

“Set it down here?” Beetee asks, gesturing toward an open space on the countertop. He takes a deep breath and reaches for it, hesitating just a second before taking the thing in his palm and pushing his glasses up onto his forehead to look closely at it.

He’s silent a long time, then reaches for a cable, which he wedges between the thing’s body and head, and suddenly the tiny eyes glow green.

Beetee turns to the computer, still quiet, and his fingers fly for several seconds before he sighs, sits back, and windows pop up, showing pages of computer code, diagrams of hovercraft components, and finally, last of all, a colorful swirling model of turbulent air past a wing, totally ordinary except that the odd shape of the wing means the air moving around it forms the shape of a heart.

Rokia’s eyes fill, and she has to lean on the countertop to keep from falling. When she sucks in a desperate breath, Beetee turns, his own eyes bright, and slowly stands, only to hug Rokia so tightly she can barely breathe. They stay like that, holding each other up, until Beetee takes a deep breath, sits back heavily in his wheelchair.

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses and looking at the screen. “Let’s see what she’s given us.”


End file.
